


Envy on the Winds

by orphan_account



Category: James Bond - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Gen, M/M, not a fix it fic, somewhat canon compliant, soulmate!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 06:23:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soulmates are things of fantasy in an age where apathy rules king; existing only in stage plays and romantic comedies. It’s the last thing a man who kills for a living should believe in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Envy on the Winds

**Author's Note:**

> For the fabulous toomanyducttapetoomanyrope. It's a little less happy than I intended, but I hope you enjoy it!

Everyone has a soulmate, but this is no assurance of love. There is only ever a name, and recognition that with that name comes compatibility. 

Not unending bliss or a tale for the ages, but emotional and physical compatibility; and sometimes even that is not a guarantee.

Soulmates are things of fantasy in an age where apathy rules king; existing only in stage plays and romantic comedies. It’s the last thing a man who kills for a living should believe in.  

Nonetheless, he pities the poor soul that has ‘James’ emblazoned on their skin in his own messy script. More than anything because they’re tied to a dead man.

When he was young, before his parents’ passing, he’d imagined his soulmate would be kind to him like so many people weren’t. They wouldn’t laugh at his too-big ears and gapped teeth, or whisper harsh untruths about his mother and her obscured mark.

At night she’d take his hand in hers and slide her thumbs to cover most of the name. She would do this with sad eyes and instruct him to tell others that his soulmate’s name is ‘Tia’, at least until he leaves the old land and older bloodlines of the moors behind him. He’s too young to know that the name etched into his skin is distinctly male.

Maybe that is why he doesn’t object when the Secret Intelligence Service requests that he surrender his mark for the sake of anonymity. It is certainly not a difficult decision when a name has brought you nothing but ridicule.

It’s never a decision he regrets. The socially conditioned sting of being nameless slips away after years of bedding men and women who’s names stretch elegantly across their skin. He knows he’s not the only man who has turned away from fairy-tale dreams of true love. 

He remembers all of this while bound to a steel chair, facing down a mad man with curiously wandering hands. He speaks of revenge, and despite the man’s rodent metaphor, James knows he’s staring down an apex predator. He’s almost loving in the way he destroys what tiny world Bond has built back up for himself.

Silva draws back the collar of his James’ shirt with a deceptively soft touch and Bond knows exactly what the man is searching for.

“Did a fair job on you, didn’t she?” Silva traces the skin with his fingertips and sighs sadly. “Not a trace to be found; but I’m sure you still remember. We all do. Up there. Hidden away like a precious treasure.”

“You’re looking in the wrong place.”

Silva rears back, pleasantly surprised and unbuttons the cuff of his own left sleeve.

“I didn’t want MI6 to take my name,” he says, fussing with the cufflink. “I told them I would not sacrifice that part of myself; it was special to me, sacred.”

He pulls back the fabric of his sleeve to reveal the thick, shiny pink scar tissue that ropes across his forearm. 

“In the end I still lost him.” Silva points to what remains of a particularly hideous burn. “That was the last thing they took from me. But I remember. I will always remember.”

After that the conversation devolves into insult and gunfire; it is only on the transport plane back to England that James runs a thumb over his own blank wrist. A measure of loneliness. A twinge of regret for Severine.

The world doesn’t stop for James when M divulges that Raoul Silva is an ex-agent named Tiago Rodriguez, in fact, his mind is curiously clear as he makes his way back to the holding cell.

Silva doesn’t speak when Bond approaches. Only rises to his feet and watches the agent with calculating eyes. James knows there is nothing can be said in this moment that would mend the damage done to them both; he simply removes his cufflinks and rolls up his shirtsleeve to reveal the bare skin of his wrist. Silva bares his teeth in a parody of a smile, but the expression dissolves into something pained and manic.

They stay like that for several minutes, dead air and missed opportunities heavy between them. When the emergency hatch slides open with a hydraulic hiss, it is almost a relief; but Silva doesn’t look away. 

“I’m afraid that’s for me,” he says, before pushing open the door of the containment cell easily; stepping out but making no move to engage James. 

“So it would seem.” James agrees.

“We would have had such fun,” Silva calls as he slips beneath the grates. “It truly is a shame she got to us first.”

James remembers his mother. He remembers feeling alone and ashamed. He remembers the pain of the brand that seared away _Tiago,_ and he remembers pitying the man who bore the name _James_.

He doesn’t feel pity anymore.

 


End file.
